


10-Master and Apprentice

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 1, Early Days [10]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-22
Updated: 1999-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan loses his cool and pushes his master's limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	10-Master and Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> The first slash I ever wrote, and the first of what became The Warrior's Heart in all its vastness.
> 
> Art by CM

Obi-Wan thought he’d never been in a hotter, drier, more uncomfortable climate and wondered how anyone survived here. That a whole civilization not only survived but thrived was a testament to the adaptability of humanoid physiology, he thought, and the fact that this world at least was rich in mineral resources, if not in water. The system was pyrotechnically beautiful from its fringes, where they’d reverted to normal space a short time ago. Half a dozen small worlds orbited the binary system of Lyria, comprised of a third magnitude yellow sun playing tug-of-war with a hot blue dwarf, each of them leaking plasma in intricate arcs. The fourth planet out, Li’ir, was the only one to support life and the culture it had baked into rigidity were the Liad, cold-blooded humanoids whose amber eyes sported nictating membranes from evolutionary exposure to sand-blasting winds and relentless light.

Jedi had been requested to help negotiate and seal a peace agreement between the two High Ruling Houses of NaRiid and NaMintil, the first in many centuries, and the Council had sent Obi-Wan’s Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, and his padawan—a typical mission for the pair of them, if only there were not personal tensions between them.

They had been greeted at the port with high pomp and ceremony, lavishly and competitively dined by both Houses, and given luxuriant if stifling quarters in a fortress situated in the nominally neutral territory where the negotiations would take place.

The room was both dark and close though richly decorated. The tile mosaics on the floor were intricate and colorful and ascended halfway up the walls to merge with similarly stunning frescoes. Only latticework and environmental forcefield covered the four elaborately arched windows, but not a breath of air moved through it. Two low and generous sleeping couches were set in the middle of the room, and around the edges of it were deep cushions and low tables for meals and the kind of lounging they had done earlier over the elegant welcoming dinner. The fresher facilities included a deep basking pool—a rare luxury on this dry world. Beautiful quarters, Obi-Wan thought, if it weren’t for the heat.

“You’d think they were trying to roast us alive, Master. How can you bear it?” he asked when they’d retired to the rooms provided them by the Liad.

Qui-Gon looked almost as worn as Obi-Wan felt, though theoretically, they were both dressed as well as the natives for the heat in their light Jedi tunics and pants. The boots and cloaks were a bit much, though at least the hoods served to shield them from the fierce binary suns. Obi-Wan suspected it was something else entirely fatiguing his master.

“These are their finest guest quarters, Obi-Wan,” he reminded his apprentice a little sharply as he removed his boots. “You should be both grateful for and gracious about the honor they show us as Jedi. The Liad build rooms to hold the heat during the night since they cannot regulate their own interior body temperature, and desert land like this is frigid after sunset, as you know. I suggest you use this as an opportunity to work on regulating your own body temperature. You could use the practice, Padawan.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan murmured deferentially and began readying himself for sleep, following his master’s example. _At least we’re speaking,_ he thought.

The five day journey out had been a tense one, although Qui-Gon had lost some of the remoteness with which he had begun it. Since the night in the Temple gardens—an experience that conjoined them on every level and then left them both largely senseless and achingly separate once again in its intensity—their only attempt at making love had been both painful and abortive. Neither had had the courage to initiate anything since, nor much of an opportunity to do so on the courier ship, where every sound carried through the bulkheads and the passenger bunks were narrow and uncomfortable—though Obi-Wan couldn’t sense where their ardor had cooled much. Instead, Qui-Gon had retreated into the emotionally cool formality Obi-Wan had often experienced in the early years of their association, but he found it more difficult to endure now. As a consequence, they had both spent a great deal of time in meditation and studying the mission materials. The result was a build-up of tension and frustration neither of them had experienced since before they’d become lovers.

On his way out of the fresher, Obi-Wan knelt and ran his hand through the basking pool’s water, which was invitingly cool and a little oily with some pleasant fragrance, leaving a dull slippery sheen that softened the skin when it was rubbed in. He stripped out of his linens and slipped into the shoulder-deep water, sighing gratefully, and considered sleeping here. A large, irregular depression lined with more beautiful tile work, the pool had padded edges, underwater ledges of varying height, and a wide inner overspill trough that allowed the occupant to float lazily with his head supported and arms outstretched comfortably on the lip of the inner ledge. Obi-Wan did just that.

He was, in fact, nearly asleep when Qui-Gon came into the room. “Ah, I wondered if you’d done that,” he said, with more warmth than any time in the last few days. “You’re cheating, Padawan.”

“‘A Jedi is wise to conserve his own energies by making use of situations and objects at hand,’” Obi-Wan quoted his master primly. “Why don’t you join me?”

“I was coming in to do just that. And to see if you’d drowned yourself accidentally.”

The water barely rippled as Qui-Gon slipped carefully into the pool and stretched out beside his apprentice.

“That’s a relief,” he sighed, laying his arm along Obi-Wan’s and brushing his fingers through his apprentice’s short hair, the first real sign of affection he’d enjoyed since the morning after their night in the gardens.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed sleepily, feeling more hopeful than he had since before they’d left the Temple. “I should go to bed, but I don’t think I can move.” He felt almost catatonic, hardly able to stay awake, wrung out by the heat, the rich meal and the pressures of diplomatic small talk, and the tension between them. Qui-Gon seemed just as lethargic and too tired to maintain his masterly distance.

Light from the high windows and skylights faded into night as they lay in the pool. The water was cool but not chill and seemed almost like high-concentration salt water in its buoyancy. Obi-Wan felt weightless, disembodied in the darkness. To anchor himself he reached over to touch Qui-Gon, hand falling on his master’s belly, and caressed the crisp dark line of hair that ran from navel to groin. The feel of Qui-Gon’s absurdly soft skin beneath his fingertips brought him wide awake with desire.

He decided then that he’d had about enough of celibacy, whether his lover had or not. Someone had to take the initiative and it might as well be he. Li’ir had a long day-night cycle and negotiations were not due to start until late, to allow the Jedi time to adjust to the climate and planetary rhythms—thoughtful but unnecessary planning on the part of their hosts. There were other uses to which the time could be put. Something he hoped might thaw Qui-Gon’s suddenly chilly demeanor, for instance.

Especially when there seemed to be no real reason for it. There might be 35 years between them, but Obi-Wan had sometimes found himself hard pressed to keep up with his master, pun intended. He knew that behind Qui-Gon’s mask of calm and imperturbability was a passionate man who didn’t think twice about defying the Jedi Council to do or say what he felt the Force was telling him was right, who would freely argue with Master Yoda in front of anyone who cared to listen, who threw himself into saber practice with a fervor that could beat an opponent down with raw energy alone. But the last glimpse Obi-Wan had had of that passion had been something of a disaster, leaving both of them unfulfilled and smarting from the experience. Since then, Qui-Gon had been distant and brooding, but unwilling to share just what it was he was brooding about.

Though Qui-Gon had banked his passion for the moment, they had continued to share a bed—a most frustrating experience. While Obi-Wan loved lying in Qui-Gon’s arms before sleep, his hands tangled in his master’s heavy mass of hair, breathing in the scent of their bodies, he wanted more of Qui-Gon’s fire and less of his control. Right now, after five very lonely days, he just wanted more of Qui-Gon, period. If his master wasn’t going to make the first move, his apprentice at least had the excuse of a 20-year-old’s libido to offer in doing so himself.

And maybe it was time that the student instructed the master.

Moving so carefully that he barely disturbed the pool’s waters, he let go the sides and ducked beneath the surface, coming up beneath his master’s knees, parting them, standing between them, shoulder-deep in water.

 

Qui-Gon made an interested noise but waited to see what Obi-Wan would do next. He knew he had been cold and distant since this journey began, but could not find it in himself to take the risk of reaching out again and failing so disastrously. Like Obi-Wan, it was not comfort enough for him to merely hold his lover at night, or simply be in his presence, and he despised his own lack of courage to do what needed to be done to salvage what they had. Now he hoped his lover would.

Obi-Wan bent his head and kissed the impossibly soft, pale flesh inside Qui-Gon’s thigh, hands sliding up the back of his legs to grip his buttocks, holding him steady in the water as he worked his way up toward Qui-Gon’s groin, then worked his way slowly up the opposite side, nibbling, licking, biting gently. His hands, slippery as a masseuse’s in the oily water, squeezed and kneaded, working loose the muscles that even then were tightening. “Relax,” he murmured against Qui-Gon’s skin, his hands moving up into the small of Qui-Gon’s back. The older Jedi sighed quietly and let himself be buoyed by the dense water and Obi-Wan’s hands, the hands that next gently stroked and squeezed his cock. Obi-Wan’s warm breath spread over the tip, his mouth so close that Qui-Gon could almost feel the young man’s lips. He tried to arch upward to bring it to his apprentice’s mouth, suddenly aflame with desire and need.

But Obi-Wan stood again and moved in close, holding him motionless in the water. “You have to lie still, Qui-Gon, or you’ll have a faceful of water, and won’t that spoil the experience?” the younger man chided with gentle humor. “Relax. Just breathe. Trust me.”

_Why shouldn’t I?_ Qui-Gon wondered uneasily. Why should he have to say so? There was something in Obi-Wan’s voice that his master found a little unsettling. Nevertheless, he did as he was told, relaxing into the water as Obi-Wan’s hands kneaded into his back and buttocks and down the backs of his thighs and calves and finally his feet, then slid lightly up his legs again, parting the knees once more. The water rippled lightly as Obi-Wan sank lower in it and brought his mouth to the soft sac tucked into his master’s groin. Qui-Gon inhaled sharply as Obi-Wan’s lips and tongue caressed him there, took him in his mouth and enveloped him in living heat, making his cock pulse.

_//Good?//_ He felt the light touch of Obi-Wan’s mind through their bond, briefly felt his apprentice’s heart clipping along with his. _//Yes, love.//_ He wanted to run his fingers through the young man’s bristly hair, but letting go of the pool’s side would have upset his equilibrium in the water, so he lay back again and closed his eyes, surrendering helplessly to Obi-Wan’s hands and mouth. It was frustrating not to be able to touch him or direct his lover, but it was distinctly pleasurable to be relieved of the responsibility, too.

Obi-Wan’s hands were stroking Qui-Gon’s back with light touches beneath the water and his mouth moved now to the older man’s cock, taking just the crown in, tongue moving over it with a slow, pulsing pressure, alternately sucking and licking. The hands moved slowly down his back, the tips of the fingers running down his spine until they reached the cleft separating the globes of Qui-Gon’s muscular ass. One finger moved down into it, found the sensitive flesh ringing the opening to his body and stroked it until Qui-Gon thought he could hardly stand it.

“Padawan—”

“Shhhhhh.” The sound was a pulse of warm air against the tip of his cock. “Lie still. There’s no master or padawan here, remember? Just us. Trust me,” he murmured again.

Obi-Wan’s mouth descended on Qui-Gon’s cock again, taking him in more deeply this time. At the same moment, one of Obi-Wan’s fingers plunged inside him and Qui-Gon cried out, fighting the simultaneous urge to arch upward and back against his apprentice’s penetration. Along with the physical sensations, Obi-Wan opened himself up to Qui-Gon and the feedback of his own arousal until it became an intense sensory loop. Weightless and lacking leverage, there was no movement he could make that wouldn’t ruin everything. He felt trapped and helpless and strangely paralyzed by the pleasure, though he was, in fact, not. Qui-Gon’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs as Obi-Wan’s mouth sucked and licked and squeezed his cock and his finger—two fingers now—moved inside him. It took every ounce of control he had not to writhe in pleasure.

“Obi-Wan—here—” he gasped, starting to reach out with one hand.

Obi-Wan withdrew his fingers and released Qui-Gon’s cock, giving the shaft a long, licking caress with his tongue that made his master shudder and left him wanting more. “No talking. No instructions,” he insisted. He pinned Qui-Gon’s wrists against the pool rim, leaned over him and covered Qui-Gon’s mouth with his own.

Breathing hard, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and let the tension Obi-Wan had built flow out of him once more as his apprentice kissed his way down his body, from mouth to the pulse in his throat, and the hollow of his neck and collarbones, his chest, his nipples, the lean, hard stomach, his navel and down again to his straining erection. It felt—odd, decidedly odd, to be obeying his apprentice without question. So many years since he’d been a padawan himself, subject utterly to his master’s commands. There was something almost humiliating about it now. But that was because he was thinking like Obi-Wan’s master, not his lover, he realized. Obi-Wan’s lover wanted to give over command of himself and his body to the person who filled his life and heart. Why shouldn’t he? They were alone, without responsibilities for the moment, honored guests in sumptuous quarters. And Obi-Wan was loving him.

The slick fingers moved gently inside him, slipping in and out, opening him, the rhythm soothing, until a third finger joined the two already inside and Obi-Wan again let him feel his own mounting excitement. He inhaled sharply, tensing.

_//Hurt?//_ Obi-Wan asked, not moving.

_//No,//_ Qui-Gon replied, letting out a shaky breath. It was the only sound in the room apart from the lapping of water and Obi-Wan’s breathing. _//No. Just—unexpected. Don’t stop.//_

_//Remember, no instructions.//_ Obi-Wan smiled, then leaned down to take Qui-Gon’s cock in his mouth again, letting his master get used to the sensation of fullness inside him.

It had hurt, that third finger, but not because of Obi-Wan’s carelessness. It had hurt because of his own hesitation, his own tension. Why was he afraid to tell his lover that? For fear he’d stop? He’d lied to Obi-Wan, though he was certain apprentice knew it, from the care he was taking now. At the same time, he’d felt such an intense surge of pleasure—of both relief and excitement—that it made the intrusion not just less painful but terribly desirable. He could still feel the places Obi-Wan’s mouth had been and wanted them there again. His groin, his whole body was on fire, as Obi-Wan slid Qui-Gon’s cock in and out of his hot, wet mouth, sucking, holding it tight with this tongue. His own muscles pulsed and tightened around his lover’s fingers.

This wasn’t like the other times Obi-Wan had penetrated him. It was somehow more invasive, more aggressive—and much more intimate, as though Obi-Wan, in taking control, were reaching inside to touch something hidden. It made Qui-Gon feel vulnerable and open in a way he hadn’t felt in years, in a way that was somehow dangerous, but so very desirable in its similarity to that moment of unity in the garden.

And it was dangerous because disappointment was dangerous. Ecstasy didn’t visit those who never left the door open, but neither did despair. Both were infrequent guests, and Obi-Wan was prying that door open for them once more, had pried it open briefly, once before, with unsettling results. Qui-Gon felt an incipient panic at the idea. He tried to shunt it away, deflect it and encapsulate it with his trust and love for Obi-Wan, but he could still taste it in the backwash of his apprentice’s desire.

Obi-Wan’s fingers slid in deeper, curling over his prostate, still reaching in, and Qui-Gon cried out again and arched reflexively into the rush of intense pleasure, setting the water in the pool rippling out and back.

“Too much?” Obi-Wan whispered, kissing his stomach, dipping his tongue into Qui-Gon’s navel, licking and kissing the ridged muscles quivering beneath the smooth skin. Whatever Obi-Wan was seeking was very near the surface now.

“No,” Qui-Gon gasped, trembling violently, on the verge of being completely inarticulate, on the verge of weeping, shields collapsing. Whatever control he had left was slipping, badly. He’d suddenly ceased to care. He wanted that moment again, no matter what the cost. He wanted Obi-Wan to take him and lay him open.

“More?”

“Yes!” _Oh, gods, yes,_ part of him answered, praying Obi-Wan would ignore him, as another part prayed he would not.

 

Obi-Wan smiled. He nearly had Qui-Gon begging now, and almost completely subject to his whims. If he wanted more, the only choice he had was to lie still and wait while Obi-Wan raised the stakes, or take things—so to speak—into his own hands. Either way, Obi-Wan knew he’d have accomplished his goal, and broken down another barrier between them. “We’ll see,” he said wickedly, and bit down hard on the tender skin inside Qui-Gon’s thigh. Qui-Gon grunted and jerked away, almost letting go of the rim.

Obi-Wan could feel his master’s confusion and emotional disquiet wrestling with the now-paramount desire for pleasure. _Got you,_ Obi-Wan thought, trying not to smile. He withdrew his fingers, tucked them together and carefully maneuvered just the tips of all four a short way inside.

 

Qui-Gon let out a shout that echoed in the tiled room, his body rigid with the mixture of pleasure and sheer vulnerability. He wanted the release, wanted Obi-Wan to take the last step and lay him bare, wanted the full sensation of that hand inside him, owning him, opening him, taking, mastering—

“Shhhhhh,” Obi-Wan whispered again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” The fingers withdrew and Qui-Gon shuddered in frustrated desire.

“No!” he gasped, and was appalled to hear the desperation, the pleading in his voice. “Don’t stop, Love. Do it! Please, gods, please—”

The words echoed chillingly in the small space, reverberating longer than they should have. Obi-Wan felt cold suddenly, which didn’t seem possible in this place. He’d never seen this look on Qui-Gon’s face, this mixture of fear and desire and a desperate need. Fear—that’s what was making him cold. Qui-Gon’s fear. He hadn’t wanted that. It had no place between them. He would not be the cause of it.

“No, I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan replied, shaken. “I shouldn’t have—I don’t want to hurt you. But I won’t make you wait any longer.”

 

Some part of Qui-Gon collapsed in relief at not being forced to cross that threshold yet. Physically, he was aching for release, but as wonderful as it felt to have Obi-Wan’s mouth hot and tight around his cock, to have his apprentice work eagerly to make him come, the climax was less satisfying than it should have been. Something was absent between them and the loss saddened him.

 

Obi-Wan washed his master tenderly, rubbed the sheen of oil into his skin until it was like silk beneath his fingertips, and toweled them both off, feeling vaguely foul somehow. He’d let his own erection fade, unfulfilled, but it wasn’t merely unsatisfied desire that was the problem. Qui-Gon seemed subdued, almost beaten, and not present even in the kiss they had given one another afterwards, with the taste of Qui-Gon’s cum still in his mouth. He let his master go to his sleeping couch alone, staying behind to meditate in the long, hot, infernal darkness. Neither of them slept well, or much.

 

 

 

The opening day of negotiations was mercifully brief, mere ceremony designed to stress to both parties the serious nature of their undertaking. It opened with a formal procession of dignitaries into the conference room where Qui-Gon stood at the head of the table, Obi-Wan slightly behind him as befitted a padawan, followed by equally formal introductions and greetings fraught with a minefield of protocol that Qui-Gon navigated effortlessly. Following the ceremony silently, Obi-Wan was glad he wasn’t the one conducting it; there were too many verbal traps he would have fallen right into and too many non-verbal cues he had missed entirely. If Qui-Gon were preoccupied with other matters, he had suppressed them completely for this part of the day at least.

Obi-Wan, on the other hand, was far too distracted by how handsome and dignified his master looked, standing with his hands tucked into his robe’s sleeves, silver-streaked old-bronze hair braided tight to his scalp in deference to the heat and falling in a long, thick tail down his back. Without his hair framing his face, his features were even stronger, the planes and angles of his jaw and cheekbones sharper, his nose more aquiline, his eyes hooded under the deep brows—fierce and handsome as he had been posing as a Finder barely four tens ago. The Liad were a tall and muscular people, their skin lightly scaled and iridescent, bare skulls bisected by a flexible crest that was often an involuntary indicator of emotion and mood. “Handsome people much given to personal decoration,” Qui-Gon had described them, and they were handsome and highly decorated with tattoos, jewelry, and ornamental articles of clothing. But none was so handsome, so beautiful, really, to Obi-Wan as Qui-Gon in his simple Jedi robes. _I’m so lucky,_ he thought.

He was also having some very real misgivings about what he’d done the night before. In daylight, it seemed coldly manipulative and more than a little cruel, and he was more than a little disturbed that he could do something like that to someone he loved. He’d meditated for most of the night, opening himself to the Force and searching his feelings, and not liking what he’d found. The truth of the matter was that he had had only his own pleasure in mind, and not Qui-Gon’s, nor his master’s dignity. He’d been selfish, and in that selfishness, had opened himself to the Dark Side. The chill he’d felt had been not from Qui-Gon’s fear, but from his own sense of power over his master.

Next on the agenda was a formal surrendering of weapons—swords which had been handed down for generations—to the Master Jedi, who accepted them with solemnity, and turned them over to Obi-Wan for safekeeping with equal gravity. The blades were beautifully crafted and very old, and it was hard not to admire them both as weapons and simply as objects. Obi-Wan had to remind himself that, unlike his own lightsaber, these weapons had been used for more than defense. The Liad had moved far beyond the heavy double-edged blades they handed over, into devastating energy weapons that had left visible scars on the graceful pastel buildings of the largest city-state where the treaty was being hammered out, but the archaic weapons they surrendered carried a weighty symbolism that was more important than their relative deadliness.

Afterwards, Qui-Gon gave a short speech on the nobility of pursuing peace, encouraging each side to negotiate in good faith. The senior diplomats from each house replied in kind, praising their old enemies for courage and craftiness and each declaring it was time to pursue the mutual benefits of those traits and build a bond of trust.

Then, of course, there was more food, and more casual but still somewhat fraught conversation, and a long, leisurely lounging period during which intoxicants of various sorts made the rounds and were ingested in various ways. Qui-Gon stayed for a time, politely refusing the liquor and euphorics but pointing them out to Obi-Wan as they were passed around, and explaining the effects of each. Obi-Wan knew his master wasn’t averse to any of them, and wouldn’t object to him trying one or two, since by now he had learned to metabolize such substances rapidly, if necessary, but he decided to refrain all the same.

“How do you know all this, Master?” Obi-Wan asked quietly. “These weren’t in any of the texts you had me study.

“The same way you’re learning about them now, Padawan. Experience. Why do you think a Jedi’s training takes so long?” One of the Liad passed a tray of tiny liqueur glasses holding only a taste of some deep red fluid. “If you’re going to try something,” Qui-Gon murmured in his ear, “don’t bother with this. You don’t need it.”

“What is it?” Obi-Wan asked.

Qui-Gon smiled, but it was a bitter one. “An aphrodisiac.”

 

They took leave of their hosts shortly afterwards, having neither stayed too late nor left too early. With almost fourteen hours until dawn, Obi-Wan expected some sort of invitation from Qui-Gon but when they entered their stifling quarters, he merely suggested they both get some rest in view of the long day they were facing tomorrow. He wasn’t precisely cold, but there was a deeper distance between them there had been last night and on the trip out. Not only had Obi-Wan’s attempt failed, it had pushed them farther apart.

A short time later, Qui-Gon was breathing softly, asleep on his couch. Obi-Wan was not.

He lay face down on the cool tile floor, letting it suck the heat out of his naked body. Despite the temperature of the tiles, sweat pooled in the small of his back and between his shoulder blades, and this was because the rest of the room was an inferno. Or at least it felt like one to him. Qui-Gon seemed unaffected and actually lay under a sheet in his bed. Obi-Wan had opted for the floor after only a few minutes on the couch, deciding it was the next best thing to a suspensor field for coolness, if he had to try to sleep in these conditions.

_The real problem with trying to lower one’s body temperature,_ Obi-Wan thought sourly, feeling the slick layer of sweat between his body and the tiles, _is maintaining it when one’s asleep._ He shot Qui-Gon, wrapped comfortably in his sheet, an envious look.

Obi-Wan shifted to a cooler spot on the floor, closed his eyes, and cleared his mind once more, opening himself to the Force. He let the coolness of the tiles radiate upward through his skin, letting it creep beneath into the muscles closest to the floor, then through his viscera and his back until he too was radiating coolness into the stifling air of the room. This time, he concentrated on convincing his body that this should actually be his core temperature. Sleep settled over him a short time later.

Unfortunately, it was as brief as it had been the previous night as his temperature restabilized at its usual norm. Sighing quietly with frustration, Obi-Wan got to his feet and walked to the window, hoping for a breath of air from the rapidly cooling sands outside.

_The heat has nothing to do with why you’re not sleeping,_ he told himself. He was wondering, in fact, if he hadn’t made a terrible mistake the night before. All day he’d caught himself thinking of Qui-Gon’s face, the fear and vulnerability in it, the need and desperation and just ordinary frustration. He’d meant to bring the act to completion last night, could still hear Qui-Gon pleading with him to do so, could still feel the imminent loss of control cresting in Qui-Gon, but the look on his master’s face—how unshielded and raw he suddenly was—had stopped him. That wasn’t the Qui-Gon Jinn he knew. He wasn’t sure it was the Qui-Gon he wanted to know—not yet.

 

Qui-Gon woke as his apprentice picked himself up off the floor and felt a twinge of pity for him. It was unbearably hot and Obi-Wan couldn’t seem to keep his core temperature down. It seemed cruel to allow him to continue to suffer without helping him. They would be here some time and he needed his padawan alert during these negotiations. He wasn’t, however, certain he was ready to face Obi-Wan alone in the middle of the night. Last night had been not precisely a debacle, but was nonetheless deeply disturbing. For the first time, Qui-Gon was having second thoughts about the wisdom of sleeping with his padawan, and he wasn’t even sure why. Had Obi-Wan been asleep, his master would have risen to meditate and clear his mind. Instead, he lay awake searching his feelings about his apprentice.

Qui-Gon wasn’t sure whether he was outraged or simply frustrated. Obi-Wan’s “performance” the previous night was both alarming and inflaming, and Qui-Gon wasn’t used to being unsure of his feelings. He was also used to being in control, making the decisions, being the teacher, being the end of the responsibility chain, at least in this relationship. But this new phase of it was full of unsettling surprises, which is why he’d been so careful. In some ways, it was as new an experience for Qui-Gon as for his apprentice, his previous lovers having been men and women near his own age, and none of them already associated with him in a rigidly subordinate role.

How did one negotiate and set limits in bed with a subordinate? How could one? The subordinate, by definition, wanted to please, needed to please, to perform, to produce, to advance—a situation rife with double entendre and innuendo, and ripe for exploitation; the superior had to maintain a certain distance, as well as discipline and control. Those barriers and factors didn’t belong between lovers. No wonder the Code discouraged such liaisons. One or both of them were so easily hurt with this kind of love between them and it just stood to rearrange the proverbial progression somewhat: fear of pain or loss, anger at the beloved, hate, suffering, fear of more pain. Disaster in the making. And it was far too late to back out now. It should have just never started, and that was Qui-Gon’s fault.

_Gods, I’ve been stupid and selfish and cowardly,_ Qui-Gon thought disgustedly. _It’s hardly the boy’s fault. It’s all so new to him._

But it was, somehow, Obi-Wan’s fault, if not entirely so. His padawan had, at some level, overstepped his bounds. In other matters, as his apprentice grew older and became more experienced and attuned to and wiser in the ways of the Force, Qui-Gon had allowed him greater latitude in making his own decisions and in participating in their missions, but he was still a student with much to learn, and this was very new ground for him. With this, as in all things a padawan experienced, his master was the guide. Here, Qui-Gon had failed his apprentice by not setting limits from the beginning.

With another lover, the vulnerability he’d felt last night would have been a step to deepening their relationship. With Obi-Wan, it would only grossly distort the balance of power between them. It wasn’t that Qui-Gon didn’t desire it; he loved the boy deeply, more so, perhaps, than he’d ever loved in his life. Together in the gardens, the Force had given them both a taste of what they might someday have, and that was what he had been seeking last night, what Obi-Wan had been reaching for again. He just couldn’t allow it to happen. Not yet. Not at this point in Obi-Wan’s training.

And his apprentice would have nothing to say about it. There was too much at stake beyond their relationship.

Obi-Wan was still Qui-Gon’s apprentice, and nothing could change that, short of one or both of them leaving the order. On their first night in bed, they’d agreed to leave “Master” and “Padawan” outside the bedroom and come to it as two equals, but Qui-Gon was beginning to realize that wasn’t really possible. They weren’t suddenly different people in bed and couldn’t just shed that aspect of their lives as though it were merely a mask or a role. He had a feeling Obi-Wan had known this all along, consciously or not, and last night had pushed him to test their limits. Sometimes the padawan teaches the Master. _I’ve been a fool,_ he thought, _ruled by my feelings. Obi-Wan deserves better._

He should speak to the boy. Obviously, neither of them was getting any sleep. Qui-Gon rolled over to see where his padawan had taken himself off to and inhaled sharply, caught completely off-guard by the sight of his apprentice standing at one of the windows, outlined in latticed moonlight, his skin glistening with perspiration. Qui-Gon found himself helplessly captivated by the young man’s body set out in the chiaroscuro of shadow and light: the compact shoulders and slim hips, the muscular thighs and legs, the furrow of spine down his back, his red-blond hair whitened by moonlight. His padawan braid lay over one shoulder, though he had unfastened the ponytail for sleeping. The loosened hair fell softly down his neck, clinging in dark, damp tendrils to the skin. The sight made Qui-Gon ache physically, and somewhere in a place he couldn’t name. _He deserves better from you, old fool. Do what you must, not what you wish._

Qui-Gon threw the sheet back and rose silently, padding noiselessly across the cool tiles to his padawan. He caught Obi-Wan around the waist and pulled him roughly against his body, need and a new determination making him much less gentle than he normally was. The young man’s skin was damp and he felt almost feverish in Qui-Gon’s arms. The clean, sharp smell of his sweat was intoxicating. He wanted to lick it from every inch of Obi-Wan’s skin. “Can’t sleep, Padawan?” he murmured into his apprentice’s ear, his tongue following the whorls, then moving downward along his clean-shaven jaw and neck, tasting and kissing and nipping, his heart already pounding.

 

Qui-Gon’s tongue moved over Obi-Wan’s ear and down his jaw. The embrace from behind had been a surprise—he hadn’t heard his master get out of bed—and its roughness sent a mild jolt of something that wasn’t quite fear through him. Anticipation, perhaps. He knew Qui-Gon would never hurt him, not intentionally, and he trusted Qui-Gon with his life, but after last night he wasn’t sure what to expect. He shuddered against the Jedi Master’s cool, naked body. “No, I can’t sleep,” he said huskily. “But you were doing so quite nicely. You’re like ice.”

Qui-Gon ran his hands over Obi-Wan’s muscular chest and stomach and felt him shiver, then moved down his hips, pulling the young man more firmly against him, stiffened cock pressed against the smooth concave curve of Obi-Wan’s back. “I was,” he acknowledged, rubbing against the hot, sweat-slick skin. Obi-Wan shuddered again, matching the older man’s rhythm. Qui-Gon reached around and took Obi-Wan’s hardening cock in his hand, stroking it to firmer life. “But there you were standing in the moonlight, love, and I found I wanted you more than sleep.”

“Tell me what you want, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan whispered, reaching up to run his fingers through his master’s beard.

“I want you to finish what you started last night, Obi-Wan. The lesson was incomplete,” the older man’s voice was suddenly sharp.

“I don’t think I can,” Obi-Wan said quietly, turning his face away, suddenly ashamed.

“Then I’ll have to, my Padawan,” Qui-Gon murmured against his apprentice’s ear, stroking Obi-Wan’s back, kissing his neck beneath the damp hair, licking the salt of sweat from his nape. The rush of breath on Obi-Wan’s skin was quick now, as quick as his own had become.

Then Qui-Gon brought his hand away from Obi-Wan’s cock and pressed the back of his neck, not at all gently. “Down,” he ordered. Off-balance and a little confused, Obi-Wan obediently followed the insistent pressure forward and down and reached out to brace himself on the windowsill. Qui-Gon kicked his legs wide with one foot, making his balance that much more precarious. It would take some careful maneuvering to get out of this position. Or someone’s help.

One slickened finger traced the curve of Obi-Wan’s ass from scrotum backward, found his body’s entrance and plunged inside. Obi-Wan shuddered and gasped in surprise as the muscles tightened reflexively. Qui-Gon wasn’t usually so quick and or brutal. It was a little shocking, but also arousing. The finger withdrew, became two, and Obi-Wan bucked back against Qui-Gon’s hand, near crying out, wanting more, wanting his master inside.

“Control yourself, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said sharply. “We’ve just started.”

Qui-Gon’s other hand stroked Obi-Wan’s cock until he ached to come, then left it with just a bead of liquid at the tip, arched and throbbing with each heartbeat. Obi-Wan whimpered in frustration.

“What have I taught you? Forgotten it all so soon, have you?”

Bewildered by Qui-Gon’s disappointed and disapproving tone, Obi-Wan tried to sense his master’s feelings, but there was a blank wall between them, and that was even more confusing than Qui-Gon’s sudden harshness. Qui-Gon had only withheld himself so completely once before, on a mission where they had posed as master and slave. Obi-Wan felt as blind and wretchedly alone as he had then. He drew a deep, shaky breath and concentrated on dampening the sensation in his groin just enough to hold off orgasm but not lose his erection, as Qui-Gon had taught him.

A moment later, the fingers slipped from his body and the crown of Qui-Gon’s cock, hot and slippery, pressed against that entrance. “Let me in, Padawan.” Qui-Gon’s voice had gone guttural with need and desire, hard with command. It was an order, not a plea.

Obediently, Obi-Wan willed the muscles to relax. Qui-Gon pressed harder. It was almost painful and yet not, dancing on the knife edge with pleasure, as the muscles stretched more than accustomed and just the head of Qui-Gon’s cock slid inside. A surge of pure physical need roared over Obi-Wan. He wanted to heave himself back against that hardness and feel it all fill him, he wanted Qui-Gon’s large hands on his own cock, wanted them squeezing his balls, but the older man held him firmly by the hips, moving his own slowly and deliberately. “Steady, love,” Qui-Gon murmured, and kissed the back of his neck. “We’ve all the time we could ask.”

Obi-Wan didn’t know what to think, or if he could think at all. One moment Qui-Gon was all teacher and Jedi Master, the next the usual tender lover. Well, not entirely that lover, but a new, more aggressive one. _Oh. Look what was in the box you opened last night,_ he realized. As with most things one greatly desires, it wasn’t quite what Obi-Wan thought it would be.

His breath was harsh and loud in his own ears in between the gasps and small cries Qui-Gon’s movements drew from him. _Where does he get this control?_ Obi-Wan thought dimly, stupefied by the pulse of pleasure in his groin, one threatening to engulf him any moment. Each time they moved, Qui-Gon thrust a little deeper, allowed Obi-Wan to move closer, until he’d taken his master all inside, trembling eagerly. They rocked together for a moment, Obi-Wan’s legs shaking. Finally, with a groan, his legs and arms gave, and Qui-Gon caught and followed him down heavily, one arm wrapped around his waist, still inside him.

On the floor, they knelt at first without moving, Obi-Wan straddling Qui-Gon’s thighs as his master massaged his trembling leg muscles. Then Qui-Gon held him back against his body and ran his hands in long, slow strokes down his chest and belly, then rocked hard up against him. Obi-Wan ground himself desperately into the thrust of his hips as Qui-Gon’s hands continued to move down his body to just above the root of his cock. He tried to move Qui-Gon’s hands to his groin, but the Jedi Master broke his grip easily and continued to stroke him everywhere but. “Not yet, Padawan. Wait. Slow down. Tell me what you feel.”

“You,” Obi-Wan gasped. “Your hands.” Qui-Gon rocked up again, hard, making him burn and ache. “Your cock inside.”

“No,” Qui-Gon corrected. “You’re feeling your body, not mine. This is what I feel.” And Obi-Wan was flooded with sensation: smooth, slick skin under his hands; warmth against his chest, a tight heat closing around his cock; hands moving over his torso, stopping where he wanted them to go on; trembling legs; two heartbeats, two sets of lungs breathing, Qui-Gon’s and his own filtered through Qui-Gon’s perceptions so there was almost a third person with them. And then it was gone again and he was cut off from the man he loved in all but physical sensations.

“I can’t feel you,” Obi-Wan cried. “Let me.”

“No,” his master said. “That’s a privilege, not a right, Padawan. My gift to you and yours to me, no matter how strong our bond. I will give it when I feel you deserve it.”

_What?_ the younger man thought, too shocked and hurt to speak. _When I deserve it? What did I—_

Then Obi-Wan forgot everything as Qui-Gon’s hands dropped to his groin, stroking and squeezing his cock in time to their movements, mirroring the tightening muscles around his own. “Good?” Qui-Gon whispered in his ear and bit the lobe.

“Yes! Hurry,” Obi-Wan gasped, and, unbelievably, Qui-Gon stopped, rising up on his knees and, pushing his apprentice away, nearly pulled out of him entirely. “No!” Obi-Wan moaned in frustration and thrashed in the older man’s embrace. “Hold still!” Qui-Gon hissed through clenched teeth, one hand coming down in a vise grip on the back of his apprentice’s neck, forcing him forward and down farther onto his elbows and knees as Qui-Gon covered him, so much larger and stronger. Obi-Wan could feel Qui-Gon’s heart thundering against his back, like a double heartbeat. He huddled back against it, wanting warmth and connection, any connection.

“Hold still,” Qui-Gon ordered again, stroking and squeezing Obi-Wan’s cock, slowly, teasingly, as the young man trembled beneath him, wanting desperately to move, trying to obey and barely able to stop himself. “Good, Padawan,” Qui-Gon whispered approvingly. Then he plunged inward again, hard, pulling back slowly, and again, and it was all Obi-Wan could do not to shout. All thoughts of his master’s pleasure disappeared. “Harder. Hurry,” he growled, feeling as though he were going to explode.

“Wait,” Qui-Gon said, and held him there, and held him there at the edge of orgasm, letting it build and build, making Obi-Wan hold himself back and then feeding the fire with a quick thrust, a squeeze, a slow stroke, all interspersed with long pauses; with fingers that touched and probed and trailed along his skin without regard for what he wanted or needed; with the curtain of Qui-Gon’s long, feather-soft hair falling over his own bare shoulder, across his back, down one arm as his master licked and kissed and bit and sucked, all the movements stopping when his apprentice couldn’t control himself. Obi-Wan felt as if every nerve he possessed were on the verge of firing all at once. He panted and trembled and whined under Qui-Gon’s hands and body. “Please,” he moaned. “Please, Master. Please! I’m so close— Now! Don’t—stop.”

“‘Stop,’ Padawan?” Qui-Gon murmured in mock astonishment and, maddeningly, did stop. “You don’t want this?”

Obi-Wan cried out wordlessly, panting and squirming. “No! Don’t stop!” he gasped desperately, when he found language again. He writhed beneath Qui-Gon, who only held him more tightly, crushing his breath out of him until he could barely inhale, until he was lightheaded. “Hold still, Padawan!” Qui-Gon growled, nearly smothering him into submission. His groin ached and throbbed painfully, he was so near coming. “No!” he gasped again. “I can’t--”

“No? You can’t? You will.” Qui-Gon swept his apprentice’s arms from under him, forcing him down at an even sharper angle, face pressed to the tile floor, his wrists held tight in one hand behind and slightly above his back, effectively immobilizing him. “You’ll do as I say, Padawan,” he said harshly, jerking his arms painfully, “feel what I want you to feel, when I want you to, and come when I let you.” Obi-Wan felt his shoulders burning. It only sharpened the edge on his arousal.

Qui-Gon squeezed Obi-Wan’s balls just to the threshold of pain. His apprentice whimpered again, more in desperation than hurt. “Wait.” Now Qui-Gon’s hand took his cock again, squeezing, stroking the tip in circles, until Obi-Wan felt dazed and almost paralyzed, his heart slamming against his ribs, limbs shaking as if he were recovering from a stun charge, panting so hard he was almost hyperventilating. “Wait, wait . . . Now, Padawan,” he said, finally—finally!—letting go his arms and thrusting hard and fast once and again and again into that glove-tight passage in Obi-Wan’s body.

Every nerve in him did fire then, cum spilling out across Qui-Gon’s hand and the floor. The sound that came out of him was nearly a scream, or would have been if Qui-Gon hadn’t clamped his hand over his apprentice’s mouth. “Quiet—Padawan,” he gasped out with each violent thrust, and then came his own low groan with the wet rush deep inside Obi-Wan.

Both their erections softening, they collapsed side by side on the cool tiles, Qui-Gon’s chest heaving, Obi-Wan still moaning quietly, muscles quivering. Qui-Gon pulled him into a close embrace, running one slow hand over his arm and ribs and flank. “Was that what you wanted, Padawan?” he whispered in Obi-Wan’s ear, nuzzling.

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said faintly, feeling both utterly drained and somehow shell-shocked, now that he’d gotten what he wanted. It was an automatic rather than a necessarily truthful response. He lay very still in Qui-Gon’s arms, as though considering it. Truth won out a moment later. “Sort of,” he went on hesitantly, and then, amending it, “I—I don’t know.”

Qui-Gon could feel the tension in Obi-Wan’s body as he curled around his apprentice, offering one arm as a pillow, running long, now-gentle fingers through the short hair, flipping the braid back and stroking the tip of it along Obi-Wan’s skin. “Sometimes what we want is not what should be. That’s especially true of us right now. We’ve spoken of vulnerability before, how neither of us can afford to let our feelings for each other make us vulnerable as Jedi. But we’ve not spoken of our vulnerability to each other. We cannot be other than what we have always been to each other, we can only be more, until you are knighted, no matter what either of us desires. If we start playing power games with one another without laying the ground rules first—”

“I know,” Obi-Wan said contritely. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”

“Only one of us can play the master, Padawan, and we can’t shed our roles so easily for a few hours. I should have known it without you having to teach me.” He kissed the back of Obi-Wan’s neck again. “It’s no excuse, but this is a new experience for me, too, loving my own padawan. I’m learning as I go along, as you are, and I’ll make mistakes. We both will. Tell me when I do.” He pulled Obi-Wan tightly against him again. “I wanted you more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time, last night,” he murmured fiercely. “And I wanted what you were giving me so badly I’d have done nearly anything to get it. That won’t work between us, Padawan. Not right now. When you’ve become a knight in your own time, then, perhaps, we’ll explore that avenue as equals. But right now, I must lead, and you must obey. Your life depends upon it, and mine. I won’t risk that, even for our love. Do you understand?”

“Yes, My Master,” Obi-Wan said, feeling both chastised and grateful and deeply touched by Qui-Gon’s admission, and pleased to know that Qui-Gon did still want him, did still love him that much. “Thank you,” he said quietly, twining his fingers with the long ones spread across his chest.

Qui-Gon pulled away, out of Obi-Wan’s body, drawing one last sigh from both of them. “Now,” he said, “after that rather exhaustive and exhausting lesson in controlling yourself, Padawan, come to bed and we’ll see what we can do about your feverish little body, if not your feverish little heart.”


End file.
